


The Strategist and the Redhead; Part 2

by ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade



Series: The Strategist and the Redhead [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 08:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11180895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade/pseuds/ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade
Summary: This series of fics features an OC that originated from a brief headcanon I wrote in the early days of The Ignis Scientia Estrogen Brigade; they were written out of chronological order, so I apologize for any inconsistencies you might happen to come across. Part 2 is shameless shower smut.





	The Strategist and the Redhead; Part 2

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place before the start of in-game events. And no, the redhead doesn't have a name. Sorry. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

She tries never to fall asleep after they’ve made love; four o’clock in the morning comes rather abruptly if the redhead lets herself nod off in the aftermath of their relations.

But he wore her out a bit more than usual this evening, so she lingered in his bed and set the alarm on her cellular for a quarter of to give herself enough time to brush her teeth before she needed to be out of his apartment when the next change of guard took place. And now that alarm was pealing in her ears, even though it felt like her head had just hit the pillow moments earlier.

She fumbles through the darkness to quiet the annoyance, and is relieved when it finally falls silent. She then reaches for the lamp on the nightstand and blinks away the sleep from her eyes as the room brightens; her hand moves absentmindedly to the space next to her, but she knows even before she clutches the empty sheets that he isn’t there. She has never witnessed the strategist in a state of unconsciousness before, not even at four o’clock in the morning, not even in the privacy of his own home, not even after they’d made love three times in as many hours and she can barely stand upright, much less resist the urge to immediately pass out afterward.

She heaves a sigh; she shouldn’t really care that he’s never shown the slightest bit of vulnerability around her—although the requisite of sleep is scarcely a sign of weakness—but she does just the same. Maybe it’s because Ignis Scientia looks at her differently when he’s not wearing his spectacles, and she wonders whether she is seeing a side of him few ever have. Or maybe it’s because that facet of him is just beyond her reach, and she’s carelessly allowed herself to grow too curious about him in the first place.

She casts aside her disappointment along with the comforter and searches for the clothes he liberated from her in the heat of the moment. She finds her blouse and trousers at the foot of the bed easily enough, but her panties have somehow made it all the way to the ceremonial daggers hanging on the far wall. As she disentangles the black lace from one of the gilded blades, the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee swirls in her nostrils; she’s been over to his apartment so many times now that she’s beginning to think he’s intentionally conditioning her to associate him with the smell of Ebony.

She manages to dress herself in spite of her drowsy stupor, and wanders out into the kitchen; the lights are on, but he’s not there, either. Instead, she finds a pot of coffee percolating on the stove, and quickly pours herself a cup before the temptation of more sleep lures her back into his bedroom and under his warm blankets. It’s only when the hot liquid pools down her throat and stirs her senses that she notices the sound of water splashing from inside the bathroom.

So she follows her ears, and stops tentatively at the door. When she receives no response to her light rapping, she opens it gingerly a pokes her head inside. “Ignis?”

His lanky silhouette is visible behind the frosted glass of the walk-in shower. “Morning, Darling. Did you find the Ebony I left out for you?”

“I did, thank you.” She steps into the bathroom and closes the door behind her, then sets her steaming mug down on the sink. “I seem to remember asking you not to call me that.”

“My apologies. It’s just that I call all my lovers ‘Darling’—makes it easier not having to recall every one of their names when there are so many of them.”

She snorts as she reaches for the sole item she keeps at his residence—a spare toothbrush. “Just how many lovers do you have at any given moment? Or is that another one of your little mysteries?”

“Could be one, could be a hundred. Who knows?”

She then squeezes a dollop of paste onto the toothbrush, shoving it into her mouth as she turns on the tap. “It certainly isn’t  _that_  many,” she mumbles. “There isn’t enough room in your medicine cabinet for a hundred toothbrushes.”

“Is that jealousy I detect in your voice?”

“Hardly. I just think I would’ve sensed a slight drop in your raging libido by now if you were keeping a plethora of secret paramours from me.”

The sound of water splashing against the tiles drowns out whatever witty response he might’ve had, and she finishes up with the task of brushing her teeth before turning off the faucet and glancing back at the shower. After a moment, she tiptoes over to the sliding glass door and opens it a crack.

She’s somewhat surprised to find that the strategist doesn’t wear his ever-present glasses even while showering, half expecting him to peer over at her through two foggy lenses. But his face is sans spectacles, his back turned toward her, and he’s gliding a razor over one cheek without the help of a mirror. When he doesn’t appear to be aware of her surreptitious spying, she resigns herself to indulging in the sight of his sculpted and dripping backside.

“If you think I don’t notice your ogling,” he says after a time, “then you underestimate my hearing capabilities. I’m nearsighted, not deaf.”

Her face immediately flushes hot, and she moves to close the sliding door. But he has it barred from the other side with his foot, and he rinses his razor off under the stream of water before finally turning to face her. “It’s fine. Just thought you’d like to know you aren’t as sneaky as you think you are.”

He has never been particularly modest around her, and right now is no different; he props a hand on one hip, his nudity on full display for her viewing pleasure. “Noted,” she says, not quite averting her gaze.

He turns his attention back to the job of scraping away the stubble of his other cheek. “I presume you’ll be leaving shortly?”

“Soon, yes,” she murmurs, and then furrows her brow. “How in Eos are you able to shave without a mirror? I can’t imagine trying to reach the back of my knees with my eyes closed.”

“My vision’s already poor as it is, and it’s only worsened as I’ve gotten older.” He gives one last tug across his jawline and feels around for any rough patches he may have missed, then rinses his razor off again before replacing it on a caddy near the shower head. “Might as well get used to doing it by touch before I’ve gone completely blind.”

“Why are you even taking a shower at this Astral-forsaken hour? Didn’t you sleep at all while I was in bed?”

“No, but I like to get an early jump on the day. There’ll be plenty of time for me to catch a few winks later.”

She frowns. “When?”

“Oh, you know. During council meetings. When I’m waiting around for Noct to drag himself out to the Regalia.” He dunks his head under the stream of water and slicks back his tawny hair. “It’s easy to get some shuteye when I’m sparring against the likes of you.”

Her green orbs narrow at him when he tosses her a wry grin. “Awfully cheeky this morning, aren’t we? I ought to spank you for that.”

“Go on, then. See what happens.”

She briefly considers following through with her threat, until he leans over and plants a damp kiss on her cheek. He then turns back toward the shower head, and she moves to close the sliding glass door; at the last moment—and against her better judgement—she quickly reopens it and directs an outstretched palm aimed squarely for his left buttock.

If she thought she had a daemon’s chance in daylight at catching the strategist unaware, however, she is sorely mistaken; he intercepts her wrist mid-strike without hesitation, and she has only a heartbeat to register the malevolent smirk on his face before he is pulling her into the shower with him and directly under the flow of hot water.

“You  _wretch!_ ” she yelps. “You know bloody well I don’t keep a spare wardrobe at your apartment!”

She dances away from the oncoming torrent, but it’s too late; her clothes are already drenched, her red hair plastered to her forehead like a drowned rat. “Curiosity killed the Coeurl,” he quips. “It’s not my fault you have the reflexes of a dying Flan.”

She clenches her fists and throws a halfhearted punch at him; he deflects her second assault as easily as the first, and draws her closer under the shower head. “Really, Ignis,” she growls. “You’re acting ridiculous.”

But his long arms are wrapping themselves around her shoulders, his bare chest pressing up against her shivering body, and she can feel the hackles on her neck lower when he touches his lips to her ear. “Come now, it’s only a bit of water.”

Any expectations she had of leaving before the four o’clock guard change evaporate with the steam of the shower when his fingers drift toward the closures of her tunic; his mouth is at her neck now, his warm breath mingling with the hot water trickling down her tresses. “How are you not utterly exhausted?” she asks. “I can barely keep my eyes open.”

He releases the final button and peels her out of the wet garment. “Having trouble keeping up? You’re welcome to bow out of our arrangement at any time.”

It’s less of a demand and more of a challenge; she’s certainly never felt the least bit  _obligated_  to entertain his advances. “You didn’t even let me finish my Ebony.”

“I’ll brew a fresh pot later,” he murmurs, and reaches around her torso to tackle the clasp of her undergarment.

The rhythmic sound of water hitting the floor around their feet echoes the beat of her rising pulse; he guides her against the tiled wall as he discards the sheer article and drags his lips across her collarbone. She tilts her head back and closes her eyes, relishing in the sensation of his strong hands massaging her breasts; at the back of her mind, she surmises there are worse ways to be woken up in the morning.

His fingers then move south and lower the zipper of her soaking trousers, just enough for him to slip a hand beneath the waistband of her underwear. Her breath catches in her throat when she feels him penetrate her folds, and he covers her parted mouth with his own to stifle her gasps. Her hands search for something to hold onto, but there isn’t much to grab; his smooth chest is still slick with soap, his fingers resolutely occupied with teasing her sex, so she settles for pressing a palm firmly against the growing rigidity between his legs.

There was something oddly tranquil about moments like this with him in the early morning twilight, with nothing but the sounds of running water and her soft moans to break the silence of the otherwise sleepy apartment complex. He drops to his knees and grips at the sides of her legs, stripping her of both her pants and underwear in one deft maneuver; relieved of the last of her sopping clothes—and feeling newly awakened—she reaches for his damp hair and sifts through the feathery strands of his temples.

But her fingers automatically tug back on his scalp when he nuzzles the sensitive spot between her legs. “Darling,” she says, entirely aware that she is breaking her own rule, “you don’t have to do that. There are other ways of making me happy that don’t involve the risk of drowning.”

His ears evidently don’t work as well as he claimed, and the water cascading down her hips and around his mouth appears to have no discernible effect on his breathing cycle, because he ignores her caution and continues his delightful probing with a rough tongue. Her knees buckle slightly when he presses a finger inside of her, and she clutches at his shoulders to steady herself.

Perhaps the palace rumors of him entertaining the company of the men were true, and that a handful of his hundred secret paramours were equipped with a sword rather than a sheath, but the redhead is wholly convinced that the strategist has a sixth sense when it comes to pleasuring the female form. Because he isn’t focused solely on just her sex; his hands are everywhere at once, and when his strong fingers aren’t buried within her warm flesh, they’re gliding over her belly, gripping her buttocks, lightly pinching her nipples and eliciting a cry from her lungs. It’s the kind of full-body attention that makes her nub ache and her head swim with delirium, and had the tiles not been slick with soap, she might’ve very well climbed the walls of the shower like a Wyvern out of hell.

The old familiar fire in her lower abdomen is roaring now, and at edge of her hazy thoughts she is reminded of all the times she’s sparred against him; he is as precise with his tongue as he is with a set of daggers, predicting just how her body will react to his touch as easily as he parries her lance, and no amount of writhing beneath his erotic torture can seemingly deflect his advances. For the redhead knows that when Ignis Scientia sets his sight on a goal, he is on a single-minded mission toward fulfilling the duties relegated to him;  _Woe to the Astrals should they ever get in his way,_  she thinks.

Her hoarse pants mingle with the echo of water hitting the tiles, but she can’t hear anything over the sound of her own pulse screaming in her ears. She has half a mind to leverage a knee directly across his jaw if he doesn’t conclude this delightful misery soon, because the gentle way he is raking his teeth back and forth over her tender hood is becoming borderline intolerable, and the hands he has clasped around her waist are thwarting her attempts at escape. As the pressure inside her nears its tipping point, she can almost imagine him uttering the phrase he uses when supervising his pupils in the Citadel’s fitness center— _One last push should suffice_ —at the back of her mind.

It’s only when her orgasm crosses its threshold and her arms flail desperately for something tangible to grab hold of that she realizes there’s a reason mother nature intended for copulation to occur in a horizontal position with all four limbs in contact with a stable surface; were it not for his strong fingers gripping her hips and bracing against her violent bucks, she might’ve split the back of her head open on the wet floor by now. The hot water pouring down her neck and shoulders matches the warmth spreading throughout her abdomen, and she stands rigid against the tiled wall for several numb moments before he draws himself upright and silences the last of her whimpers with a kiss.

He then brushes a lock of wet hair away from her face and gazes down at her through earnest eyes; she knows it’s up to her whether they continue this twilight dalliance of theirs, because Ignis has rarely ever proven covetous in his desires. He’s a giver, always giving, always making sure the needs of others are met before his own, whether it’s to the crown prince and his comrades, or to his pupils, or especially to her. That was just the person he was, and although she doesn’t quite understand the motives behind his undying loyalty to the citizens of Lucis, she recognizes when he needs a gentle push to indulge in his own simple requests.

So she turns away from him and places her palms on the frosted glass doors, because returning his generous favor doesn’t mean she has to risk breaking her neck in a fit of passion, and keeping two feet firmly planted on the floor is likely the safest bet. Her eyes flutter shut when she feels his fingers trace the outline of her spine before he moves to cover her hands with his own; his lips graze her ear as he whispers her name—not  _Darling_ , but her real one—and gooseflesh ripples across her skin when he leans his taut chest against her back.

The hot water cascading down both their bodies is nothing compared to the searing heat she experiences when he presses himself inside of her. She tightens her fingers around his and lets out a gasp, but all evidence of her ardor is lost in the echoes of the shower. His response is more subdued; his lips are at her neck now, his teeth nipping gently at the soft flesh of her shoulder, and he pushes himself more fully inside of her when she tilts her hips up against his slender waist.

His nimble hands then drift down to encircle her torso and caress her breasts; she shudders as he begins to move his iron-clad hardness within her walls, and her hands slide down the shower doors, leaving behind a trail of streaky fingerprints on the foggy glass. She gnaws on the inside of her cheek with each of his methodical thrusts, forcing herself to be patient, forcing herself to allow him to take his time, willing the urge to scream out in ecstasy away, even when all she really wants right now is for him to prove he is prone to the weaknesses of ordinary men by ramming her hard up against the tiled walls.

She doesn’t have to be patient for very long, however; his human side is showing, because his movements are becoming less restrained, his gentle nips turning into more insistent love bites. He reaches down between her legs and massages his long fingers against her sex; the flesh there is still sensitive from his earlier ravaging, and she can’t quite stifle a cry of pain mingled with pleasure as he drives his hips against her backside. Her palms slip from the door when his thrusts meet the edge of her resistance, so she resolves to press her entire body against the frosted glass to stabilize herself.

Suddenly, his movements cease. He retrieves his hand from her thighs and withdraws from her, taking a step backward under the shower head. She glances over her shoulder at him, perplexed; he does this sometimes, halting abruptly near the apex of their mutual momentum, for reasons not quite apparent to her other than the strange expression of remorse on his face.

“Apologies,” he says, as the hot water trickles down his chiseled cheeks.

She turns to face him and frowns. “What ever for?”

He gestures to the marks of her nose and lips imprinted onto the foggy glass. “It seems I let myself get a bit carried away. I know you’re tired—we can finish this another time.”

 _Damn him for being so selfless,_  she thinks. “I’m fine, really.”

“It’s all right. It was impolite of me to get your clothes wet—if we stop now, there’s a chance you can still make it out of here before the next change of guard, although you’ll have to leave with a damp wardrobe.”

“ _Ignis_ ,” she pleads, as she closes the distance between them, “I don’t want you to stop. Not ever.”

Ah, there it is—that  _look_. The one he gives her when he’s not wearing his spectacles, reserved only for her and the few people who have managed to break through his aloof defenses long enough to witness the humanity behind his enduring stoicism. Something changes in his green eyes; the strategist may present a facade of calculating coldness to the world and everyone around him, but the redhead knows that Ignis Scientia’s blood runs as hot as Ifrit.

He traces tentative fingers across her left cheek, then leans over and kisses her fully on the mouth. She can feel his erection still hard as a rock pressed against her belly, and she snakes her arms around his neck as she chases after his tongue. His temperature is rising along with his fervor; the electricity running through her veins channels the heat of his wet skin, and in a deft maneuver that belied a remarkable amount of strength, he grasps at her thighs and lifts her up off the floor entirely.

Her back is planted firmly against the tiled wall of the shower, her ankles locked fiercely around his narrow waist, and when he buries his warmth inside of her, she is unable to contain the cry of rapture that escapes her lips. Had she been in a more coherent mental state, she might’ve had cause for concern; her build was more athletic than waif-like, and his wiry frame wasn’t the obscenity of muscles like Gladiolus Amicitia, either. One wrong move and they may both wind up with severed spinal cords, and death by drowning—in a half inch of water, no less—wasn’t precisely the way she had expected to meet the Draconian.

But at the edge of her mind, she knows she is safe in his arms; his grip over her legs is secure, his cadence steady, and when he covers her mouth hungrily with his own, her worries of tasting the floor tiles melt away with the water circling the drain around their feet. Her spine is braced against the wall, which leaves her arms free to wander—and wander they do, her hands clutching at his biceps and her fingernails digging into the soft tissue of his shoulders with each deliberate thrust.

For someone who was hefting the mass equivalent of a small Voretooth across his hips, Ignis’ face is surprisingly composed; he’s not afraid to look at her as he drives himself ever deeper into her warm body, and she longs to get lost in the depths of his eyes. But there is something there, something she can’t quite put her finger on, some particular wheel that is turning in his head and driving him slowly toward madness, because the way he has his jaw clenched is not so much a sign of his intense focus on the task at hand, but of a man who is precariously close to the point of no return.

She can feel his rigidity strengthening inside her, his heartbeat pounding furiously against his ribcage, and she can sense the quickening of his breath in his lungs. He breaks her gaze and closes his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers as he resigns himself to the inevitable; his hips tremble through his final throes, and he climaxes quietly—just as he always does—while his fingers tighten and relax around the back of her knees in time with the pulsing of his spreading seed.

For a long moment, the only motion coming from within the shower is the water pouring out of the faucet; the redhead and the strategist are locked in a statuesque embrace, as if the two have succumbed to enemy petrification. Ignis eventually releases his vice grip over her thighs, and she slides carefully down the tiled wall until her feet have returned safely to this plane of existence. It’s only a small mercy that he touches his lips to hers one last time before his features recede back into passiveness; her heart aches when the look of longing in his eyes disappears, and he moves away from her to open the sliding glass door.

“I’ll throw your clothes in the dryer,” he says, wrapping a towel hanging on a nearby hook around his glistening waist. “They ought to be ready before the eight o’clock guard change, if you don’t mind waiting a few more hours.”

“Sure thing,” she replies, not quite concealing the melancholy in her voice.

He then plucks her cold cup of coffee from off the sink. “If you want to finish showering, I’ll brew a fresh pot of Ebony. It’ll be ready when you get out.”

“Thank you.”

And then he’s gone, stepping out of the bathroom and closing the door behind him, and she’s left standing alone under the stream of hot water. She knows it’s pointless to begrudge his remoteness—it was all part of their agreement when she initially involved herself with the strategist—so she reaches for a bottle of shampoo instead and consoles her sudden despondency by replaying the events of the last several minutes in her head.

The aroma of coffee percolating on the stove greets her when she finally exits the bathroom wearing a plush bathrobe.  _His_  bathrobe, to be precise; he left it out for her when he opted for a towel, and she surmises that even in his heightened state of indifference that always seemed to follow in the afterglow of their lovemaking, his heart wasn’t entirely made of stone. She treads lightly toward the kitchen and sees his lanky form leaning against the countertop, fully dressed, bespectacled, and monitoring the color of the brewing Ebony.

“Would you consider inspecting the perimeter of the complex before I leave?” she asks, as she runs a towel through her damp hair. “I’d just as soon avoid an awkward conversation with the crown prince should he happen to wake up earlier than usual.”

Her brow furrows when she receives no response; it isn’t until she moves further into the kitchen that she notices the dark liquid heating on the stove is at nearly a full boil, and her eyes dart over to the motionless figure standing beside it.

It takes all the willpower she can muster not to burst into audible giggles; Ignis’ eyes are closed behind his glasses, and his chest rises and falls beneath his shirt in a peaceful rhythm.  _The man literally sleeps standing up,_  she thinks.  _Like an Astral-forsaken Spiracorn._

She supposes that lays the palace rumors of him having a magitek generator in place of a brain to rest once and for all, although what to do with him now was another question entirely. For a moment, she simply appreciates the sight of his uncharacteristic humanity; the requisite of sleep  _was_  scarcely a sign of weakness, after all, and the features that were so often lined with the weight of the burdens he carried were now blissfully serene. Eventually, she opts not to disturb him, and simply tiptoes over toward the stove to turn the range off.

She then glances at him one last time—his chin is resting against his chest, his glasses drooping slightly across the bridge of his nose—before moving back toward the bedroom. It would be another thirty minutes or more before her clothes were dry, and another few hours before she could leave his apartment besides. Above all else, she was bone tired; whether she truly could keep up with the strategist was still out for debate, so she sets the alarm on her cellular for a quarter of eight and silently prays she’s satiated his desire for intimate activities at least for one morning.


End file.
